


Shrike To Snow

by camichats



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Married Couple, Mild Sexual Content, Past Rape/Non-con, Secret Identity, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camichats/pseuds/camichats
Summary: Shrike is a villain hellbent on revenge. Renfri is a housewife that spends most of her time cooking/cleaning and trying to think of good lies about her injuries to tell her husband, Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 9
Kudos: 72





	Shrike To Snow

Renfri glanced away from the frying pan to see what was on the news. Ah, Shrike. She'd been pretty busy this afternoon, but she'd gotten away unscathed. Of course, Shrike was considered a villain, so the news was detailing all the property she'd damaged and the people who'd gotten hurt. She didn't know why they were freaking out when only one person had died. A few people had gotten hurt sure, but that's because they were in her way; they were cops anyways, who gave a shit if they got a little hurt? 

But she needed to stop thinking like that when Geralt was on his way home. She turned back to the food, but she kept an ear open for the news and what they were saying about her alter-ego. This whole secret identity thing was starting to wear on her. Geralt had a big thing about trust, and they were _married_. She should have either stopped or come clean, but how could she? Renfri believed in a necessary evil, and Geralt believed in only choosing good, none of the 'lesser evil' discussions that everyone else partook in. She'd gotten lucky today, no more than two or three bruises, but she was running out of excuses for the more serious injuries. There were only so many times she could claim to have been mugged or taken a hard hit in her kickboxing class. 

The news was starting to debate if Witcher was going to have to stop Shrike when she heard the door close. Renfri didn't bother to change the channel since Geralt would have already seen it, and if he wanted to watch something else he could do it himself instead of her getting vegetable oil all over the remote. 

Geralt came up beside her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He sort of slumped over, giving her a hug from behind; he must've had a hard day at work. 

"Rough day?" she asked sympathetically, tilting her head to give him a proper kiss. 

"I've had worse," he said, which meant it had been a _shit_ day. 

"Why don't you get changed? Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes." 

Geralt hummed, kissing her again. "You're wonderful." 

And that right there was why she didn't tell him. She smiled and shooed him off to change. He smelled like smoke from whatever fires he'd had to put out, which meant there was a shower in his future. Not that she minded the scent, but he always seemed uncomfortable when it rubbed off on her. 

She listened to the news a bit longer, but they switched from talking about Shrike and the rise of villains versus superheros to some businessman who'd been embezzling money. Businessmen embezzled money all the time, she didn't understand why that would make the news. She wiped one hand off and flipped channels until music started playing. It wouldn't be on for long, but she wasn't going to stand here and listen to a whole bunch of assholes blow wind. 

Geralt came back to the kitchen, rubbing at his face and drinking some water. "How was your day?" 

She shrugged. The meat finished cooking, and she took it off the burner. She'd already taken plates down, so she started portioning it out. Mostly her day had been annoying and unfulfilling. Working with bad information always ended that way, but she couldn't say any of it to him. "Exercised a little. Caught up with the men." 

"How are they?" 

"Good." She brought the plates over the table, already set before Geralt came home. "Getting a little bored settling into their lives now that they're not off adventuring over the countryside." 

"You're never bored." Oh if only he knew. "Did you give them advice?" 

"I'm not sure 'more exercise' was what they wanted to hear," Renfri said wryly. "How was your day?" 

"Rough." 

"You lose anyone?" 

Geralt shook his head, joining her at the table as she sat. "Few hurt." He couldn't stand any casualties of any kind, and she understood but maybe he should look into a career change; firefighting wasn't going to be the best profession for avoiding anyone getting hurt. It was hard to imagine what else he would do though, it's like he was made for that job-- silly as it sounded when she put words to it. 

* * *

Renfri had heard about Witcher; of course she had, he made the news almost as often as she did, but in much more wish-washy ways than her. Sometimes they called him a vigilante and called his motives into question even though it was painfully obvious he was a hero. Other times they called him a hero and praised his courage, only to turn around a week later and question him again, but that didn't happen to everyone that was a hero. Buttercup, for example, was a widely recognized hero without flipping back and forth, yet no one thought it made Witcher one too, even though they worked together often. In her opinion, the problem was that he was ruthless. He gave villains and various monsters the chance to back down, but once the fight started it wouldn't stop until someone was dead or dying-- compared to Buttercup's more neutralizing nature. 

She avoided fighting Witcher for a lot of reasons, and that was the main one: he didn't stop. She was playing the long game, she could afford to retreat early every now and then when he came on the scene. The other main reason she avoided even seeing him was because he also fought with a sword and she wasn't so sure she'd win in a one on one fight against him. And if Buttercup was with him, she didn't stand a chance. 

All that being said, she tried to avoid all the fights she could, whether it was against Witcher or not. She wasn't as enhanced as most of the other supers out there, and without a healing factor (and with an added vulnerability to silver), the less injuries she had to explain to Geralt, the better. 

And so it fucking followed that she was going to get in a very messy fight later the same day that the news was doing another think-piece about Witcher and his possible villainy towards the city and its populace. It didn't really matter how evil everyone thought he was, because whenever she had _finally_ tracked down Stregobor, Witcher was standing between her and her goal. Something in her cracked at being so close to her goal-- so close to _finally_ being done with all of this-- but with him in her way. 

"Move," she growled. Her blood started to boil, heating her entire body as rage clouded her brain. 

"You don't have to do this," he said, his voice deep and distorted from whatever he used to help protect his identity-- she used something similar, a gift from Tissaia before she'd gone to ground-- and it occurred to her that she'd never spoken to him before; she'd always kept as much distance between them as possible. "You can walk away, go back to your life and forget about this." 

Go back? After everything she'd lost, everything she'd sacrificed? There was no going back. She'd been a wealthy heiress until her stepmother decided she wanted to see her bleed, there wasn't any undoing what her and Stregobor had done to her. "No I can't." 

"There's no coming back from killing someone in cold blood." It was hard to tell with the mask and voice modulation, but it sounded like he was talking from experience. 

"And I can't stop, either." She had tried once, right after her and Geralt got serious, but it had been a lost battle in less than a week. She raised her sword, stalking forward. "I would kill _everyone_ here to get to him," she spat, and it was the truth. 

Their swords clashes, and they spun around each other, dodging and weaving as they tried to gain the upper hand. In the beginning he was trying to stop her, but as the fight went on, he realized that he may not have a choice-- and since when did Witcher try only to pacify? She got a slash high on his thigh, but he put a hole in her side, and she couldn't _believe_ that this was how Geralt was going to find out. An unmasking, a quick check of her identity, and he was going to be told that he was the widower of a villain. They'd look into his life, trying to see if he was in on it with her, and when he showed up clean, he was going to try and live without her. He was going to have to live with the knowledge of everything she'd kept from him and never shared. She wondered if Witcher would pass on a message if she asked; she just didn't want Geralt to go about his life thinking that she hadn't loved him. 

She faded too quickly to think about passing on the message, sure that she was going to die right there in this fucking building, but there was a familiar swirl of purple, and then Yennefer was hovering over her, cursing as she put her hands on Renfri's wound. 

The pain turned searing, she screamed, and blacked out. 

* * *

Apparently Yennefer had a tracker on her. Nothing big, she claimed, just a way to let her know when certain idiot friends were trying to die (the witch's words, not Renfri's). 

"Isn't it dangerous for Witcher to know we're friends?" Friends in the loosest interpretation of the word, because it was only in a professional capacity that they knew each other. Yennefer sure as hell wasn't coming over for dinner and cocktails at her home where her very normal-- if normally heroic was a term, he was a firefighter after all-- husband lived. 

Yennefer rolled her eyes so hard it must have hurt, but otherwise ignored the question. "You're not completely healed, but you're not going to die from it, either. You know the drill, rest, don't pull on it, change the bandage and clean gently daily," she listed, waving a hand vaguely. 

"Yep." Renfri gingerly pulled her shirt back on, then her jacket-- she had some back-ups at Yennefer's place just in case. "Thanks for the save." 

"Don't do it again," she said, handing Renfri a bag that had her bloodied suit, mask, and gear in it. That was Yennefer's way of saying 'you're welcome'. 

"I won't," Renfri replied, even though they both knew she might be inadvertantly lying. "I'm so close to the end of all this. If fucking Witcher hadn't shown up, I would've done it." 

"You'll get him, it's only a matter of time." 

"Yeah, but I don't want it to take another ten years, either." 

"Rushing will only get you hurt." 

"No shit." She made her way-- very slowly-- to the door, bag over one shoulder. "Thanks again." 

"See you around." 

It was a slow, slightly painful trip back to her house, but she made it with plenty of time to get everything in order before Geralt got home-. He was sitting on the couch when she opened the door, staring at the television. It wasn't the news, thank fuck. "Hey." 

"Hey." 

"Where you been?" He must've gotten injured, because there was no other reason for him to be home at this time when he didn't have the day off, especially since he was in his comfort clothes: loose sweat pants and a zipped hoodie that likely didn't have anything underneath it. 

"Kickboxing," she said automatically, because she hadn't prepared a lie in advance and that was her go-to. It wasn't until he frowned that she realized her mistake. 

"I thought kickboxing was Monday/Wednesday/Friday." 

"It is, i was just getting some practice in." 

"Does that mean you got in a fight?" 

"Oh yeah. You know me, throwing punches for the last melon on sale." 

Geralt chuckled, clearly finding the idea of her fighting ridiculous. "Wanna watch some Friends with me?" 

"Sure. I'll just use the bathroom first." 

He nodded, and she slowly made her way there, hoping that he wouldn't ask about her speed or the way she was favoring her left side. It wasn't the worst injury she'd ever had, but it was up there. At least this was nowhere near the bullshit she'd had to deal with after her coma and recovery. 

It didn't take her very long to use the toilet and double check that she didn't have any blood showing, and then she was walking back out in to the living room, prepared to pretend like everything was okay except some killer PMS. Except Geralt was holding Shrike's mask in his hand, completely frozen as he looked at it. And it- it fucking killed her because that had been such a _stupid_ mistake. Geralt saw that she was injured and wanted to help by unpacking her bag like he did every time she came back from kickboxing (or villainy) hurt-- or sometimes when she had groceries that he hadn't been able to go to the store with her for-- and she should have remembered that. 

But she hadn't remembered in time, and the mask was out. 

"What is this," Geralt asked quietly. 

Renfri swallowed. He wasn't going to take this well, she knew that and it's why she hadn't told him. "I think you know." 

"Why aren't you dead?" 

"What?" 

He looked up at her, mask clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "You got stabbed today, in the stomach. How are you walking?" 

Ah. Apparently he'd been watching the news earlier, even if it had been off when she got home. Behind them, the laugh track sounded. "Violet Witch held me together." 

Geralt stomped towards her, lifting the edge of her shirt. His expression was pained at the thick bandage around her ribs. "Take off your shirt. I've got a salve to help the healing." He let go of her shirt and went to their room, hobbling a little. He must have gotten hit in the leg at work. 

Getting out of it was a bit of a pain, and she was going to switch to button-ups until she could bend over properly. It was only after it was off that it occurred to her how strange it was for Geralt to have something like that on hand. She settled on the couch, blowing out a tired breath. He came back out, and he popped the cap off a glass container shaped like an old candle holder. He peeled up the tape with a muttered, "Sorry," then dipped his fingers in the container and smeared the light blue goo over her wound. The campfire smell of magic was familiar, but not around him. He pulled the bandage back into place and set the tape securely back on her skin. 

"Where did you get that?" she asked as he leaned towards the coffee table and capped the mixture. 

He didn't answer. 

"Geralt? Are you alright?" 

He was quiet for a long moment, taking more time to wipe his hand clean than was necessary. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "I'm sorry." 

She tried to keep a brave face even as her stomach dropped. "You're turning me in?" 

His head jerked towards her, eyes wide. " _No_. Fuck, no, Renfri, never." 

"Then what-?" she asked, confused. 

Geralt swallowed, then shifted, pushing his sweats down to his knees, and she understood. There, right on his thigh was a thick bandage from where her sword had cut through Witcher's armor. Instead of tape like she had, it had been wrapped around his leg several times, and then the end was tucked inside to keep it from unraveling. 

She hadn't realized that she was holding a breath until she let it go. "I'm sorry too." 

He didn't say anything and pulled his pants back up. She should probably get a shirt. The conversation looming over them was probably one she wanted to be fully clothed for. But she'd have to go to their room and pick one out, and she really didn't feel like getting up. 

She leaned against him, careful not to press on her wound, and gently laid a hand on his leg. 

Geralt covered her hand with his own, then turned and pressed a kiss to her head. "It was hard to believe that you were happy staying at home all day cooking and cleaning. Guess it's because you weren't." 

"I wasn't miserable," she offered, but it was a pale comfort in the face of everything else. "Are you actually a fireman?" 

"Yes." He paused. "Two days a week." 

"Kickboxing is only on Wednesday's." 

"I work for Jaskier to pay the bills. Firefighting was..." 

"A cover for the injuries and odd hours," Renfri finished. He'd had his usual scheduled shifts, but there were times where he was on call, and sometimes he'd leave in the middle of the night. A pretty neat package, much more so for him than her. Mostly she planned around when she thought he'd be gone and hoped that she didn't get injured. "He knows?" 

"Yes." 

He was probably a hero as well, but she didn't want to- Buttercup. It had to be Buttercup, there was no way he knew about Geralt being Witcher and wasn't the one he was working with. But she wasn't going to say it aloud and force Geralt to make the decision of either betraying Jaskier's trust or lying to her again. 

They watched the characters on screen have a stupid fight, and it reminded Renfri of when she and Geralt were first dating. Canceled dates with barely an excuse, and they'd taken turns getting mad at each other. On her side, all of the last minute cancels were from villainy, and all of his were probably from heroism. 

"What did Stregobor do to you that was so bad?" he asked suddenly. 

"Does it matter?" 

"You were trying to kill him." 

"Am." 

"Hm?" 

"I _am_ trying to kill him. I love you Geralt, but I'm not letting you stop me. I'm not going to let anything stop me when I'm so close." 

Another pause, where Geralt remembered her words in the hallway. _I would kill everyone here to get to him_. "I can't let you kill someone." 

Renfri sighed, leaning into him further. She could hear his heartbeat through the jacket, and his warmth seeped into her face where it was pressed against his chest. It was a completely inappropriate thought that she wanted to kiss him and have sex right here on the couch. They were disagreeing over something serious, and that's what popped into her head. "I'll tell you later." 

"After he's dead isn't an option." 

"Don't give me orders," she said sharply. Though she was loathe to do it, she pushed herself up to look him in the eye. She immediately missed his warmth, but he couldn't keep thinking of her as his helpless housewife; she was more than that. 

He met her gaze, his will just as strong as hers. "I don't know if you could live with yourself after that." 

"He hired someone to rape me." 

Anger flashed through Geralt's eyes. 

"You want to know why I want him dead? That's what it is. Him and my step-mother were working together to get my father's business. She killed him, but in the beginning she only wanted me out of the way. It would be suspicious for me to die, but if I signed away the company to her, she'd be rich by the end of the week, and she'd give Stregobor his promised share. When my spirit didn't break, they tried more and more cruel things. I don't want the company back. I don't even want my old life, I just want him gone where he can't hurt me or anyone else. He can rot on that pile of money he stole into the afterlife, and my step-mother is already waiting for him." Renfri grit her teeth, feeling the familiar rise of anger in her. "You don't have to kill him. You don't have to do anything except let me do it." 

"If Shrike kills someone, they'll want to throw her behind bars." 

"Shrike will vanish after this is done." 

"I want to believe that. But it's a part of you. You can't cut out what you want and keep on living." 

"I'll find something else to do with my time." 

"Revenge controlled you. That is not easily undone." 

"And what is controlling you?" Renfri challenged. "Would you give up Witcher if I asked?" 

He said nothing, which was answer enough. 

"If it makes you feel better, Stregobor would kill me if he knew I was still alive. I changed my last name, faked my death, I planned to go underground and _crush_ him." 

"Why didn't you?" 

Renfri softened, just a little bit. "You." 

Geralt looked more uncertain in his resolve. 

"I was a complete idiot, and I fell in love instead of focusing on my goal. He would have died years ago if I hadn't stayed with you. All I am asking is that you let me finish this. If I need to volunteer at the homeless shelter every single day for the rest of my life to make it up to you, I will, but I will _not_ forfeit this." 

"No." 

"No what?" 

He looked away, jaw clenching. 

"Geralt?"

He let out a ragged breath, dropping his head to the back of the couch. "I don't compromise." 

It felt like an icy grip around her heart, but she'd known this was a possibility. 

"But-" he continued, looking pained "-he's it. One, that's all." He rolled his head over to look at her. "Promise me." 

"Just him," she said immediately, the switch from fear to relief so quick she felt as if her heart were on display. "He's the only one, I swear." She leaned forward, hands on either side of Geralt's face, pressing quick, desperate kisses to his mouth. "Thank you. _Thank you_." She hadn't been careful enough when she moved, so her side started throbbing in pain. 

Geralt realized that and put a hand on her back. "Careful. Do you have a healing factor?" 

"No," Renfri said with a grimace, straightening to make breathing a bit easier. 

"Fuck, Renfri, you should be more careful." 

"Don't tell me what to do," she muttered petulantly, sounding more like a toddler than an accomplished fighter and feared villain-- and trying to reconcile goofy Jaskier with the absolutely lethal (if chipper) Buttercup was that same feeling multiplied by fifty. 

Despite her objection to being more careful, she started to watch her movements more, pulling down the zipper of Geralt's jacket and sticking a hand inside to refamiliarize herself with the feeling of his skin under her fingers. He was the same he'd always been, she was the same she'd always been, but the new information changed her perception. She'd touched him a hundred times, but it felt different, knowing that the formidable Witcher was still her soft and loving husband that kissed her like she was the most precious being on the planet. Geralt knew she was a villain-- knew the dozens of horrible things she'd done-- and he was still putting a hand inside her jeans to rub at her clit the way he always did. 

* * *

Her last outfit had been black. Newly rebranded as Snow, she was dressed in dark blue. She didn't see the difference, personally, but Jaskier swore up and down that it was important to her new image. 

"Don't you think it hurts your image to be walking around in bright yellow?" 

"Not at all," he replied cheerfully, and she couldn't even argue because he was one of the most dangerous superheroes out there. He just looked fucking ridiculous. 

"How come Geralt gets to wear black and I don't?" 

"Because that would be too close to Shrike. We're creating a new image for you, that's why your mask is different too. You get to keep the voice modulator," he offered, as if that really mattered. She'd liked the full face mask, but now she was getting the one that went from chin to just under her eyes like Geralt had. 

She sent a pleading look to Geralt, but he shrugged. "I had to do the same when Jaskier recruited me." 

"You didn't always work together?" 

"Oh please, he's hopeless without me," Jaskier said, shooting Geralt a smug grin. "We'll be like the Three Musketeers! Maybe I should incorporate some yellow in your outfits..." 

"No," they said together. 

Stregobor was dead and thank fuck for that, but she had definitely not expected to get shoved into heroing after many of his misdeeds came to light. Well, nothing for it. Going out fighting with Geralt was a lot more fun than waiting at home for him to get back. 


End file.
